tingle.

“Who wrote that thing?” he asked Austin.

“Wasn’t it Hoagy Carmichael?”

But they were talking at cross-purposes. The juke-box suddenly sang. “I Dood It,” and then relapsed into the duet.

“No,” Austin said. “I guess it wasn’t Hoagy. That’s an old one. ‘Dardanella.’ ”

But it wasn’t “Dardanella.”

Foster saw a piano at the back. He went to it and got out his notebook. First he wrote the lyrics. Then he tried to get the notes down, but they were beyond him, even with the piano as a guide. The best he could achieve was a sort of shorthand. His own voice was true and good, and he thought he might be able to sing the piece accurately, if he could find someone to put down the notes for him.

When he finished, he studied the juke-box more closely. The broken panel had been repaired. He patted the gadget in a friendly way and went away thinking hard.

His secretary’s name was Lois Kennedy. She came into his office the next day while Foster was tapping at the piano and helplessly endeavoring to write down the score.

“Let me help you, Mr. Foster,” she said competently, casting a practised eye over the messy pages.

“I—no, thanks,” Foster said.

“Are you bad on scores?” she asked as she smiled. “A lot of composers are that way. They play by ear, but they don’t know G sharp from A flat.”

“They don’t, eh?” Foster murmured.

The girl eyed him intently. “Suppose you run through it, and I’ll mark down a rough scoring.”

Foster hit a few chords. “Phooey!” he said at last, and picked up the lyrics. Those were readable, anyway. He began to hum.

“Swell,” Lois said. “Just sing it. I’ll catch the melody.”

Foster’s voice was true, and he found it surprisingly easy to remember the love song the juke-box had played. He sang it, and Lois presently played it on the piano, while Foster corrected and revised. At least he could tell what was wrong and what was right. And, since Lois had 

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